Listening to Raindrops Knocking on a Window
by Allie Salvatore
Summary: In which Dantalion's life is crap, but Baphomet is always there for him. Pre-Canon. IMPLIED SELF-INJURY & DEPRESSION TW. [originally published on AO3]


Glistening stars seemed to flicker in and out of existence, the empty spaces between them almost inviting in their quiescent solitude. The night was silent: there was no wildlife to be heard, not a single person that dared to venture far from the city this late. Beasts lurked in the dark; silent creatures that inhabited the veil between life and death, waiting for a damned soul to feed on.

A dissonance of thoughts raced through Dantalion head, too fast for him to hold onto them, and it made him feel dizzy. He gripped the balcony's railing, tilting his body forward so his stomach pressed against the cold metal. It was almost enough to stop the nausea.

Lightning illuminated the sky and thunder followed in the distance. Was it finally going to rain? He hoped so: the rain had always helped him rest. It replaced his dreams with static, allowing him to fall into a dreamless sleep. There was a tired pain behind his eyelids, the kind of headache that only happened after crying. He rubbed his eyes.

He used to like dreaming about things, but one day Solomon was the only thing he dreamt about and he stopped falling asleep. The pain of losing Solomon, killing him, lingered on Dantalion's fingertips, the memory of his hands around Solomon's neck still too vivid in his memories. So the grief shaped his every move, buried itself underneath his skin because the world was grey and he was breathless without Solomon.

Lost, chaotic, empty—he used to be a hurricane back then.

The wind rustled the treetops, and the sound was almost like breathing. Dantalion picked at the stitches on his arms. Of course, he still was all of those things. The world remained grey and he remained breathless, grief still fueled the anger in his chest like it wanted to rip him apart. He sighed. At least he didn't dream anymore.

He took a deep breath, exhaling shakily through his mouth. He wished a storm would come so he would be able to rest. He was tired, but the memories were still overwhelming. If he closed his eyes for too long, he knew he would see the ghosts of the people he killed. For some reason, they scared him more than Solomon's death ever did.

Nameless, faceless people who mattered not. They were nothing but dust, bones to be cracked. In his head, they chanted traitor as if he didn't know it already. As if it would change anything. They were dead, their souls lost. They were only voices in his head, now.

Dantalion hid his face into his hands. Nothing good ever came from introspection, at least not for him. A desire to ache itched on his wrists. Why had Baphomet not healed him with magic? The sutures only made him want to rip the cuts open and watch the blood pour.

"How are you feeling?" Baphomet asked from the doorway, as if he'd heard those thoughts. Maybe he had. In hesitant steps, he walked towards Dantalion, eyebrows furrowed and shoulders tense.

Dantalion looked at him with a storm in his eyes, but his expression betrayed no emotion. He felt lots of things, none of which would lessen Baphomet's worry. There was no reason why he should lie, not when their deal made it so no secrets existed between them.

"I'm fine", he lied, nonetheless, avoiding Baphomet's gaze. "Just tired."

"You should rest."

"Don't worry about me."

The world around them felt like it was covered in white mist, every corner like a reflection in the water. Dantalion wished he could've said that out loud, could've explained that sometimes he felt as if the world wasn't real, as if the both of them were mere wandering shadows in the abyss. Maybe then Baphomet would be able to understand. But the words got stuck into his throat, and he said nothing.

Baphomet touched his face, and Dantalion looked at him.

"I always worry about you, master."

Dantalion leaned into the touch. He wished he believed those words, wished that comforting tone was enough to make him feel like he deserved kindness. But try as he might, there were parts of him not even Baphomet could mend. He didn't think Baphomet would ever stop trying.

He cracked a small smile and Baphomet's expression softened. It was true, of course. He'd gotten used to Dantalion's mercurial personality, the intense mood shifts was something he'd learnt to handle overtime. They fought a lot lately, usually because Dantalion wanted a reason to be angry, but that didn't mean Baphomet was any less worried about him.

He sat on the floor, legs towards his chest, face hid on his knees. Baphomet sat beside him, opening his mouth to say something, only to close it again, unsure of what to say. Words were complicated, heavy. They had too much volatile potential and, with Dantalion, he knew that it took one wrong word to make him slip further away.

"You need to stop doing this to yourself", Baphomet said, finally, taking Dantalion's left hand.

"You speak as if I do this often."

"Maybe not—maybe not slicing your arms open just because you wanted to see how long it would take to heal but... but you're always getting yourself hurt one way or another. This has to stop."

He traced a finger over the sutures, focused on healing the injury. There was something vulnerable in how he did that, as if the gesture was a lot more than just kindness. When he was finished, only a thin white scar was left, a reminder.

"Thank you."

Dantalion looked up at the sky. Dark clouds now covered the stars, lightning flashing inside them. He took a deep breath, inhaling the smell of wet earth. It made him feel more focused, as if once the rain fell it would wash his sadness away.

Baphomet watched him with guarded, intense eyes. Dantalion looked back at him, wanting to drown in the gold of his eyes. Baphomet frowned, and touched Dantalion's face once again. Trembling, gentle fingers caressed Dantalion's cheek, thumb parting his lips as he exhaled, ever-so-slightly, blood-red eyes never looking away.

"Stop looking at me like that", Dantalion murmured and pressed their foreheads together, eyes closed.

"Like what?"

"Like you think I'm going to kill myself."

"How am I supposed to look at you, then?" Baphomet spoke, moving his hand to Dantalion's hair. "When you do things like that?"

There was a beat, a moment in which his words seemed to hang into thin air. Then, Dantalion kissed him, his thoughts flooding Baphomet's mind. The chaos was breathtaking. Wrath lingering on his palms, every thought coated in bloodlust, a desire to conquer, a need for validation. A cold loneliness crept up his spine, settled on his ribcage.

Baphomet pulled away. Dantalion exhaled, and rested his head on Baphomet's shoulder. An unspoken request to be held, which Baphomet obeyed with a resigned sigh and gentle strong arms enveloping Dantalion's body. He pressed a soft kiss to Dantalion's hair, intertwining their fingers. Solace, even if only lasting until the morning when they would have to go back to pretending.

It was a life of appearances they had. It would be dangerous to reveal to the outside world how much they truly cared about each other, so it remained a secret, shared solely between them, caught in stolen kisses and gentle touches.

The rain finally started falling.

"I'm a monster", Dantalion found himself muttering. He pressed his hand to Baphomet's chest, the heartbeat fast and steady under his palm. Baphomet hugged him tighter. "I have this anger inside me that I can't get rid of. Whether I feed it or starve it, it's always there."

"You and everyone in Hell."

Dantalion shook his head. "Not you."

"Me too, you can't just make an exception because you like me." Baphomet smiled. "Even if I wasn't, I would love you just the same. Every last bit, even the broken ones. Monster or not."

"People shouldn't love monsters," Dantalion let out a shaky breath and pressed a kiss to Baphomet's neck, to his throat, his jaw.

"I'm not people, I'm a goat."

Dantalion pecked him on the lips. "Good."

They remained silent for a while, Dantalion's head on Baphomet's shoulder, Baphomet's fingers playing with his hair. The storm poured, cold raindrops hitting them whenever the wind changed direction. They didn't care. Dantalion listened to it attentively, eyes closed. He let it wash away his pain, cool his feverish anger until only a small flame was left inside him. He could almost think clearly now.

"Is this better?"

He hummed, sleepily.

"Do you want me to carry you to bed?"

"Please."

Baphomet picked him up and carried him with ease, as if he'd done that many times before. "You are a huge toddler." He lowered Dantalion on the bed, gently, watching as Dantalion curled around himself, gripping the pillow.

"Stay with me?" his voice was small, as if he feared Baphomet would, somehow, refuse.

"Of course."

He climbed on the bed, pulled Dantalion towards him. Dantalion laid his head on his chest, and took his hand, intertwining their fingers. Baphomet pressed a kiss to his master's wrist, then to the top of his head. It wasn't long before Dantalion fell asleep, easily, listening to the rain and Baphomet's heartbeat. He would have no nightmares that night, only dreams that made him feel calm. Shapes like paint diluted into water, feelings associated with colours, disjointed words that put him at peace.

Baphomet knew it wasn't enough to make him happy. But healing is a process, baby steps that are impossibly hard to take. So he infused the images, let them infiltrate Dantalion's mind through their bond. He thought the both of them deserved a break from all the pain they'd caused each other.

He let himself fall asleep, feeling relaxed with Dantalion safe in his arms. In their dreams, they were together in a world where power didn't matter so much. Where they could lose themselves in each other and not worry about finding their way back. Where they were, more or less, happy.


End file.
